कृष्ण –कृष्ण कहते कहते कृष्ण के ही हो गाए
बासुरी का जादू था कुछ ऐसा की उसी में हम खो गए
नाम रंग में रंगे कुछ ऐसे माया सारी भूल गए कृष्ण– कृष्ण कहते कहते कृष्ण के हम हो गाए मुसकान जिसकी मोह ले सबको त्रिलोकनाथ वो बृजवासी है
पल भर में भक्तो की उसने हरली सारी उदासी है सखी द्रोपदी को जिसने नारी का मान था भेट दिया सम्पूर्ण धरातल को जिसने गीता का ज्ञान फिर दान किया राधा नाम में था कुछ ऐसा की मोहन भी मोहित हो गाए कृष्ण –कृष्ण कहते कहते कृष्ण के हम हो गाए
Wisdom is an eternal treasure,
Whose value is boundless to measure!
Prosperity thy home is wisdom,
An open mind is mastery’s sanctum!
Wisdom glazes the crude,
And moulds the inner aptitude,
Guides to act with promptitude,
When there is a need for fortitude!
Life is just like dice,
Rolls in giving smiles and cries,
Wisdom is the key,
To deal all with repartee!
Survival of the fittest, they say,
Humanity alternates white and grey!
Existence throws at us puzzles,
Be wise to swiftly surface from your bubbles!
Wisdom complements your brawn,
To challenge and witness the dawn!
Anything is possible if you are wise,
Glitter and flutter above the skies!
Pluck up the courage to be the exceptional few,
Who dare to dive into the dew!
Wisdom is a gift of perseverance,
Where erudition emanates in concomitance!
Wisdom radiates the soul,
For never-ending progress to your goal!
I have given you everything you wanted,
Right from a place you called 'Home'.
Fresh air to breathe and water to drink,
The warmth that soothe one's mind.
Yet you destroyed me,
You choked me,
You dirty me,
For your greed
For your pride
You did not hesitate to do so.
Now that I'm speaking
I'm voicing my opinion on you
You rejected me,
You used me again and again
Showing no signs of mercy.
Enough is enough
I'm done giving.
Now, your decision will save the future to come
Whether to change or not to
All these will be laid before you
So,choose your choices wisely.
In a small village, where the sun
shone on both sides, and the sky was the only sea we knew,
I gave birth to my first child.
The hearth was warm, the dishes kept piling;
we're running out of mula said Maduh
because the guests kept coming.
Take mine said Meisan as she squatted on the floor instead.
When the waft of pudoh melted
into celebration, the kids drooled.
The milk in the tea was as thick as my joy;
Paieid had just picked a hen for dinner,
and the neighbours
could smell the tungrymbai inhabit their rooms.
When the clan had gathered to name this nameless child,
they named it Love, and Love was beautiful but she was blind.
Love grew up to be kind,
invited unknown guests to supper but love was robbed each time.
When it gave its jaiñkup to the cold, they left her naked.
When she sang, they slit her throat,
when she fed the hungry, she was bitten
and although gifts were given,
they were stolen because love was blind
but that didn't matter because love was kind.
When love had loved well, she was buried.
That day, the rain had drenched somebody's clothes that almost dried,
the sun wasn't shining on either side,
the children stopped playing 'La dikut u said tyllai'
(as if they knew the thread that bound mine had been detached),
the women pasted lime on betel leaves for kwai.
The hen was spared but the pig was slaughtered,
the dog howled
and the cat curled beneath the bed where Love was rested.
I sat on the floor mourning until my eyes swelled.
They fed me pumpkin and plain rice, following young girls
who'd been offering red tea for the hundredth time.
For three days and three nights the doors were left open
for Love's soul to fly to heaven,
but when the soot from the rice-pots had been cleaned
and the curtains washed,
when service was over and the coffin had been laid, even then,
Grief stayed.
Hame chaaha tha hazaaron ne,
Un sab ko thukra diya.
Poochi jab unhone wajah,
Toh tumhara naam bata diya.
Jisne tumhare liye saare jahan se nafraten mol li,
Tumne toh usi ko bewafai ka maza chakha diya!
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Staring the golden centre of the ceiling fan, I ought to see my reflection.
Too obsessed of what exactly is my projection, and that is my pure dedication.
I see through conversations and find me,
Each detail in the reflection shall adore me,
Roads full of hurdles attention crisis.
Aesthetic visions, pretty people with pretty prices.
Holding the dark yesterday where I was overlooked,
To connect with them I saw nothing and stood.
Sweet and small talks accompanied with regards are my currency.
I'm not pleasing your presence till you show me your loyalty.
Well, ironically my loyalty belongs with people who don't comment on my wrongs.
Somedays I drown in sorrow making lakes and ponds.
My therapy is scrolling with my mouth shut and eyes wet.
My life now is what others live and sweat.
Still all my flaws I see in everyone but not me.
Pushing myself up will eventually push others down the tree.
Your generalising eyes would see me as insane,
And i purely see this currency exchange as a game.
Staring at my phone I see the success when it vibrates non stop.
Once I longed to be loved by some and never wished for swap.
Belive me my eyes are full and heart is good.
I just started admiring me, because no one ever stood.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
The night I thought I would die
After the nightmare that choked me like a deja vu
A nightmare I had lived before
Lived once physically and a million times in my head
Nothing felt worth saving me from dying
Just a surge of anxiety attack up from my brain to my ends
The noises getting louder and louder beating against my skull
My body engulfing in pain
Undesirable thoughts making a room in my mind
My peace sinking in the ocean of unconscious overthinking
And sleep was not kind enough to visit my home
Maybe because I didn’t change the address on my sleep note
That summer night I was convinced I was going to die
The whole body consumed in pain
Constant heart palpitations and sweat in my veins
Shaking hands and pulsating nerves
Cold feet and sweaty palms
Red face and ears of fire
Migraines and unlimited tears
Chapped lips and bleeding nose
Breathless gasps and blurred visions
Voiceless throat and blue fingernails
Loneliness and the traumatic memories
That summer night I was convinced I was going to die
Having no one to call
and the ones I had
were too precious to disturb at that hour
But the universe finds the way to keep you
Air finally filled my lungs
And sleep showed mercy to my dreams
Love in the form of birds and kindness in the form of my friends
showed up at my window.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Has anyone seen this garden of twilight,
Soft beams of light illuminating the green,
Like He’s strolling peacefully in this abode,
A fitting end to the bright scream,
When the mighty owl was blinded and mistaken,
And lost as it accidently hopped out of its home,
Elements of heaven and a chaotic world,
Slamming cars and sirens of catastrophe,
The eyes have sunk too low for a heavenly walk,
The flowers do not speak of colours,
The leaves have hidden the green and abated,
With plasters of dust and trees have sunk,
There is a world far away in Mars,
And the human race has a feather to its cap,
Man in his quest for beauty,
Bag packing to those hills and valleys of green,
Can only flatten the beauty to a city of smoke,
For it’s here right now in this silent corner,
A soft meadow of twilight and sleeping green,
A small breath in endless years of existence,
When the journey so far comes to an end,
As we sail away from the constant churn,
Of life and the land of trauma.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Within the darkness of the vast expanding universe somewhere I reside,
Miniscule I am when compared to the ever expanding space.
I think about the things I want to do,
Of what I could be.
Wrapped around the chains of the institution we call society,
That teaches us how to live with propriety?
Confused, unconvinced, anxious and restless,
I put on my make-up while I feel helpless.
Walked about the crowded street,
And Different Faces I did greet.
Phone rings and to a party I was invited,
Within me the desire to please ignited.
The best possible face I painted,
A new me for a new gathering I created.
My interests, thoughts, and ideologies were different,
But to be just another sheep in the flock was my interest.
Interest then conflicted with my beliefs,
Realizing I was a black sheep, I grieved.
In front of a mirror I stood,
Removed the mask to see what I once could.
It was like a bedlam inside my head,
"How does it feel to lose it all?" The Fallen Angels said.
Hastily I looked through it all to find the 'Right face'.
Distraught I was upon this fall from grace.
"Is it all worth it? Raising a Pandemonium in my head for all this? " I wondered.
Sitting on the cold bathroom floor, with my head on my knees, about these questions I pondered.
An epiphany of sorts I had,
"Being different isn't all that bad".
Why should one mould oneself just to fit in?
Why should one walk along the path and follow the beliefs embossed within?
Why can't one find the courage to stand out?
To accept that one is different; isn't that all 'this is your life' about?
Why are we so afraid to accept our individuality?
Are we just meant to be living with the herd mentality?
A knock on the door I heard,
"7 o'clock at the club" Told me a little bird.
Overflowing with happiness I dolled-up,
All my thoughts I wound up.
"Thinking can really mess up your head", I said to myself.
I got out the door after putting a book back on the bookshelf.
Within the darkness of the vast expanding universe somewhere I reside,
Miniscule I am when compared to the ever expanding space.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
bear with me,
i'm not quite there yet,
still blowing warm breath on my triple coated fingernails,
adjusting gears to shift lanes on the short-tempered road,
trifling through the cassettes to run into the one
that smells like sweet-toothed mint from back home,
and a l m o s t is too simple a word
to describe this impatient yearning of
finding familiarity in this place that
is not
so kind.
there is an emotion that is all-consuming
lately, it has
burrowed itself a tiny tunnel underneath
the third layer of my skin
and languishes there in pretentious ridicule,
a constant reminder of
the sentences that tripped on the tip of my tongue
and took away with them the dreams they were sheltering,
the camera reels I never hoarded
if i ever forgot the boisterous bounce in our steps
in the uptight corridors,
the things I thought I would be but which now
merely exist as witless imaginations in a dust-abandoned corner
and r e g r e t is too small a word
to narrate this desperate, bittersweet reverie that has
dropped a heavy anchor inside me
of what could've been and what I didn't do, the streets
are much too thronged to hear the final reverberating thud of
the monstrosity.
and i'll forever be a force on the verge of not being a trivial tragedy,
looking day after day
after day
after day
to see if i've painted the dusk and dawn
doing enough of something that encompasses me with the madness
and sensibility of loved things,
if i've felt the soft touch of humans and air and penguins
existing here with me on this tiny lump of beautiful rock
so insignificant in the vastness of space and time, so home to
the only beings i will ever know and meet,
if i've abandoned enough of myself to sit with other people's
creations, peeked through the cloth a little at their souls
and their magnificent unlikeness,
and it isn't about not doing enough of everything every day,
my fingers have spaces between them that need to be filled with
another's.
i'd arrive at the end of my existence knowing that i've
belonged with something and someone, been so loved
like the rain loves the earth - inevitably, and loved so in return that
there was no space for anything else in the heart,
our eyes have met and stayed
and i have understood
everything
and been unmade,
that i've been something other than a trivial tragedy for a while.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
It was in my sundry yesteryears,
That I'd often catch a dainty whiff,
Of my mother's perfume.
So divinely worn,
It would create a brilliant nimbus around her.
However, as flew time, so did it's scent,
Weakening steadily as it got caught,
In faraway nooks and elusive crannies,
Until it was nothing but a distant, bittersweet memory,
Standing on the bourne of being forgotten.
But, as I was walking down the street today,
In my usual monotony,
It was briefly, only in passing,
That I'd smelled it's heady scent.
Yet everything around me morphed into a murky, reminiscent spectacle of my past.
Old, sweet, bitter memories,
Quickly resurfacing,
Some better buried, some maudlin,
Some wistful, some hopeful.
Of people who'd died, of people who'd lived,
All a reminder of what would never come again.
And then, it was gone all too quickly,
Prompting me to resume my monotonous journey.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
If the mountains could speak, they would surely say that my love for you is higher than them,
If the sea could speak, it would surely say that my love for you is deeper than it,
If the sky could whisper, it would surely agree that my love for you is more vast than it,
If the grass could get a chance to say something to you, it would surely decline that my love for you isn't soft as her, it's very hard,
If the rain had to measure my love, it would have surely kept falling till Doom's Day,
If the soil could speak, it would surely say that my love for you is more fertile than her, because I can plant in myself a hundred seeds of your love and care and give way to green plants representing our sweet bonding,
Nature has so many elements, only if each one of them could speak, you would have surely known that I see all of my nature's beauty in you.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Laying in the middle
Looking at the two figures
Sleeping with their back faced to each other.
The halves of the golden string
That connected them together once
Are being held by my little bleeding palms.
The question “How can love just disappear?”
Is wrapping its hands around my neck,
Choking me for the answer
I wish I had.
I have tried to tie a knot between them
But it always ends in
Sleepless storms,
Endless tears
And broken love.
Now I’m worn out and hopeless.
So,I'm going to let loose
And leave the absurdity
To the two ends of the string.
But occasionally one expresses their love to the other
Which makes me want to pull the halves
And tie it up by wrapping it
Around my strongest bone
Even if it may break me down
Till I’m dust.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
হে বীর সৈনিক,
তোমার অমিত বিক্রম, শৌর্য্য-কীর্তি
সূর্য-কিরণ সম দীপ্তি
কণ্ঠে তোমার গম্ভীর নাদ
আকাশে-বাতাসে মুখরিত প্রাণ
কহিতেছে বারবার
ভারত মাতার মর্যাদা কভু
হবে না'ক ক্ষীয়মান।
বজ্র বাহুতে রাখিবো ধরিয়া
লুন্ঠিত কভু হবে না ঝান্ডা
আঘাত যতই আসুক সমরে
দলি'ব তাহারে পদতলে
দিগ-দিগন্তে হইবে ধ্বনিত
ভারত মাতার সন্তান মোরা
শত্রু দেখিয়া হই নাকো ভীত
দেশের জন্য সঁপেছি এ প্রাণ
দিয়ে জীবনেরে দান।
তোমারি বক্ষে নিয়া জন্ম
তোমাতে সঁপেছি জীবনাদর্শ
তুমি যে মোর স্বর্গরাজ্য
তুমি মোর বিধাতা।
তোমারি বন্দেমাতরম স্তবে
হলো প্রান সঞ্চার
জন্ম-জন্ম পাই যেন আমি
তোমারি বক্ষে স্থান।
আমি দুঃসাহসী, আমি অজেয়
তোপের সম্মুখে অগ্নি বিধ্বংসী
মিসাইলের গতি স্তব্ধকারী
আমি দধীচির অস্থি,
ভীরুতাকে করি পদানত সদা
শত্রুর সংহার,
অতন্দ্র প্রহরী সৈনিক আমি
ভারতবাসীর ত্রাণ।
আমার দেশের মাটি যে মা
বিশ্ব শান্তির ধাম
সেই মাটি কে জানাই স্যালুট
দিয়ে তন্, মন আর প্রাণ।
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
I sat quizzing myself for days at end.
I found myself staring at the darkness,
For inspiration was what I was trying to fend.
I looked through the mountains
I skimped through the views
I jogged through the memories,
Still couldn't find my muse.
As days passed by, so did my hope.
Smothered with worry,
I saw my chance slipping down the slope.
After days wasted searching in vain
Came the deadline,
and brought with itself agony and pain.
I scribbled, as if my life depended on it
For it did.
Fifteen minutes before the deadline,
Head berried in the device
I wrote a poem about why I couldn't write a poem before
And I think, it turned out fine.
I sat quizzing myself for days at end.
I found myself stairing at the darkness,
For inspiration was what i was trying to fend.
I looked through the mountains
I skimped through the views
I jogged through the memories,
Still couldn't find my muse.
As days passed by, so did my hope.
Smothered with worry
I saw my chance slipping down the slope.
After days wasted searching in vain
Came the deadline,
and brought with itself agony and pain.
I scribbled, as if my life depended on it
For it did.
15 minutes before the deadline,
Head burried in the device
I wrote a poem about why i couldn't write a poem before
And i think, it turned out fine.
But that's for the judges to decide.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
“I'll wait for you”
Baba cried while adjusting my badges
on the uniform.
I wiped his tears and dubiously asked him
“Am I your son now?”
“No, you're my daughter
and even thousand sons
cannot equal your glory” he said.
He kissed me on my forehead
and I left.
Baba always wanted a son.
A son to fulfil his dream.
A son for the country
A son who could join army.
Younger me could still feel the
‘baba named' emptiness in my heart.
He never lifted me in his arms.
He never kissed me goodbyes.
He never picked me from school.
Until one day, amma died.
And baba promised to be my amma.
And from that day
I and baba would spend all the summers together
licking mangoes
under the banyan tress
in the community park.
All the winters eating ice creams
out of our guilty pleasure.
Hoping that the ice cream would reduce his guilt.
His guilt of not loving me.
His guilt of not hugging me.
His guilt of not treating me like his son.
He called me and with teary voice said
“You were great in the parade today
Sharma ji too shared your photos
on the WhatsApp group.”
“And you baba, how are you feeling?”
“ I'm feeling as if I always wanted a daughter” he cried and hanged the call.
A message popped on my phone.
‘I'm still waiting for you’.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Balcony doors wide open,
she sat on her hostel bed,
for last God-knows-how-many-years.
Everyday,
she waited for the dusk.
As a murder of crows wing away-
and city lights glare with painted eyelids,
she unfurled cobwebs of her thoughts.
Indian girl,
twenty eight and unmarried.
Five feet two inch and dusky skin.
"Seeking alliances?"
"Hell no, not now."
She's unemployed and uninterested.
Nested in failures of government exams.
And in her Indian late twenties.
First born of a broken family.
She is community's question mark-
and family's trauma therapist.
Acha's migraine and amma's heartache.
Victim of forced family conversations.
"Girl, stop telling others you've PCOS."
"Pray or fast unto death for a job."
Endless heaves and tears.
You postmortem her flat chest-
and polka dots on her skin.
She's the worst picture in gossip columns-
of neighbourhood Seema aunties.
They blabber about her boyfriend.
The one with long unkempt hair.
"I'm telling you again Beena,
not a pure virgin this one."
Fallen from lines of a rustic verse,
She's child of a golden past.
Romantic and creative.
But now a poster child of relative's sympathy.
Still chasing her dreams?
Who will want to marry her?
"That long haired boy?"
"Poor thing, he seems doomed."
Jinxed with real troubles,
she plays with fire and ice.
Runs in her high heels-
and sways in short hair looks.
Opinionated but understanding.
Outgoing but pensive.
She has eyes that are talking.
You easily brand her as a feminist.
Looped in a swirl of multilingual songs-
and over thinking time and again,
Uncertainty is her new friend.
The rest've moved into Canadian winters.
Breathless out of unyielding exams,
she wished for an apple to fall on her head.
But her hometown has only coconuts,
or God forbid juicy jackfruits.
As strings of thoughts slithered in,
hissing like her fallen hair strands.
She was not a Sita nor a Draupadi,
But a total Durga in the making.
You can call her unemployed,
or an unashamed Indian girl.
But standing tall by the balcony rails,
she was unafraid and unique.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
she asked me what I wanted to be when
I grew up, and I said with a sigh: breathless.
a winded echo, a fearful flicker, a lit handle,
side by side and twice the height, there when
I blinked colour into your empty wrist, did you
feel it? the love you left behind when you were
thirteen and craved the dark? I was there/I was
spirit and I was bone and I was the hate shoved
into the mirror, all cracked and soothed granite.
or do you not remember? my mellowed Macbeth,
life beside me is the fog and the fright, a myth you
tried to forget, a touch you would kill, if you could.
so what is it like? knowing that you live worse
than the girl in your nightmares? I never did care
like you wanted me to: the tick of a broken clock,
you said, and I did—tick. you saw me breathe and
you cried with one eye, fingers cinched and slipping.
I reached and you reached and the fallen wisteria out
the window whispered a story of pasts long forgotten,
plaid and old money and dust in our darkened fingers,
and I heard before you did: you can’t get past the glass,
affixed to something you could dig up, a web betrothed
and beyond: history, hidden and hollow, you would cry,
a breath, a lie, a girl and her innocence, or so the knife.
I remember: a day that fate spoke of with shaking
fingers, red string, shackled wrists and waning eyes,
she held my hands and we watched a part of you/me/
fade, written was our tragedy, high in the stars they took
from your little hands. do you remember? a cement smile
and the pale irises? burning cyphers, aconite and the ash
in your heart, love, how they tore you apart, a rusty blade
you’d learn to repurpose and lay down near our heart but
how could you not? familiarity, a curse, a thing of fairy tales
that made you despise Aurora: all destined and dissociative
and dying. all we’ve ever known is deep sleep and blue moon,
secret grey and then not. pray, tell me: am I truly so unlovable?
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
I stand, amidst a crowd of expensive wine and billowing skirts,
of manicured nails and polished pomade,
Khamaj hums around me, a steady drone of melody and litany
Chin up, eyes down, I stand, amidst a crowd of
unforgiving eyes and puncturing mouths,
Back straight, mouth sewn shut, I stand,
amidst a crowd of prejudice and pride,
Assuming eyes palm my back, twist my gut,
as sharp tongues vitiate my skin, permanently bruising
Composure tightens around my cinched waist, an unyielding leash;
Around me, the world speaks in hushed whispers of supposed sinners and saints, of debauchery and propriety,
Around me, the world does not forget and its memory does not forgive
I am tall, I am timid,
Suffocated, I gasp, gasp, gasp for breath and my eyes fall close
My jewel studded feet ache from carrying the woes of a lifetime, they move, involuntary, seeking solace,
A lock clicks beneath my palm, my eyes open, solitary haven at last; I breathe,
Looking, I see bespoke glass embedded in amethyst and topaz,
Looking into the mirror, I see a carefully masked face gazing back
Looking into the mirror, I see myself, I see a familiar stranger
I see countless withered words on my lips, dry teardrops beneath my lashes, dissonance in my eyes
Looking into the mirror, I see myself, swollen eyes and marred waist,
I see my inhibitions
My ragged heart, thud, thud, thuds against the scintillating glass,
emotions threatening to spill over onto the velvet carpet, rigid underneath my feet,
Looking into the mirror, I am tall, I am timid
I blink out of my chaos
As I move, I trip, momentarily losing balance
I catch myself before I fall, I always do
I am okay, I always am
Armed with sword and shield again,
I turn one last time to glimpse the glass
Looking into the mirror, I see myself, battle armour up, timid and tall
cracked at the seams,
I see a reflection of my fears
Slowly, I pick up my courage and let myself dream,
I see a world void of prejudice and judgement, a world void of cyanide and vitriol
Looking into the mirror, I let myself hope for a moment as I envision iridescent light, a luminescent tomorrow and I turn away
Chin up, eyes down, I walk,
Khamaj envelops me once more, as,
I face the world again.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
In a world of shadows, I found my start,
Childhood scarred by pain and broken parts.
A tale of wounds, both deep and bright,
Finding my path, lost through this night.
Twisted relatives, distant and cold,
Love and care they never showed.
Witnessed fights, a dreaded scheme,
Trapped in cage, a bitter dream.
A tapestry of trauma woven tight,
Each memory a thread, a sleepless night.
For their fight like thunder in the air,
A constant storm that life couldn't repair.
My mother's pain etched upon her face,
Her struggles hidden in life's cruel embrace.
I stood as a guardian, though just a child,
To shield her heart, so fragile and wild.
A thousand tears, a silent sea,
Drowning in unbearable misery.
A life held by a fragile thread,
I stepped forth, where angels tread.
Torn between hope and aching dread,
I tread the path where emotions spread.
Watching battles escalate, voices rise,
Innocence lost beneath broken skies.
Tear-strained nights and lonely days,
Chasing the sun's elusive rays.
In books and knowledge, I sought my peace,
And achiever's spirit, a release.
But years roll on, the pain persists,
A family bound by fragile twists.
The fear of breaking, constant unrest,
A heavy burden that's hard to forget.
Days just pass, the weight still clings,
Uncertainty like phantom wings.
The looming thread of bond undone,
Fierce arguments beneath the sun.
Yet deep within, a flicker glows,
A longing for the love that grows.
For smiles to be real, not just a mask,
A family's bond, bound to unmask.
So I held on tight, my heart's refrain,
Trials endured, through the pouring rain.
In the depths of darkness, I plant a seed,
For a future where love is all we need.
Through the story of pain, I'll find my way,
Hoping for a brighter, peaceful day.
A chapter of healing, of love's embrace,
To mend the wounds, to find our place.